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POEMS 



POEMS 



BY 

JOSEPH WARREN CHAPMAN 



EDITED AND ARRANGED BY 

GEORGE CHINN 

1913 






Copyright, 1913 
By Julia Prichard Chapman 



PRINTED FOR 
PRIVATE CIRCULATION 



Press of Commercial Printing Works, White Plains, N. Y. 



/?5\ ni • r\ tr f\ r\ -4 ~ 



CONTENTS 






PAGE 


Marblehead 


1 


Lancelot and Guinevere . 


2 


Skipper Dimond .... 


10 


Grant — Cusdos .... 


16 


To Clarence 


20 


On the Portrait of a French Marquise 


24 


A Prayer for Light 


27 


The Fisher Maiden 


28 


"In That Dear Hour" . 


30 


"Thy Little Song" 


32 


To-Morrow ..... 


34 


"As Oft Before" .... 


35 


An Epitaph 


37 


Not Re-elected .... 


38 


Sur La Riviere " 


40 


Class Ode 


43 


Embassadors 


. 45 


Fellowship . ... 


46 


Bird and Poet .... 


47 


"Thou Art a Flow'r" . 


. 48 



iv CONTENTS 






PAGE 


Beatrice Cenci .... 


49 


Iseult of Ireland . 


50 


In November ..... 


52 


For Marguerite .... 


53 


Sonnet ...... 


55 


Every-where 


. 56 


King- Shaddad .... 


58 


At Deering's Farm 


. 60 


Skating Song ..... 


. 63 


My Friend 


64 


After Death 


65 


' ' I Loosed a Birdling " . 


. 67 


Around Her Couch " . 


. 68 


"With the Dying Day" 


69 


In Absence 


70 


Ma Mignonne 


71 


Parted 


. 73 


An Acknowledgment 


. 74 


The Common Lot .... 


. 76 


Love on Wheels .... 


. 78 


Song . 


81 


"Let this Console Thee" 


82 


When June Hangs all with Columbines 


" 84 


Walt Whitman .... 


. 85 


Flowers 


. 86 


In Memoriam .... 


87 


' ' So Dear is Life " 


. 89 



CONTENTS 


V 




PAGE 


Evening Primroses .... 


. 91 


For Old Sake's Sake 


. 94 


Fulfillment 


. 96 


Si Facietur 


97 


The Dodder 


. 98 


" Without Thee, Lord of Life" . 


. 99 


His Goodness 


. 101 


The Cross-Bearer .... 


. 103 


Shuffle the Cards .... 


105 


Edwin Booth ..... 


107 


Suspense ...... 


108 


Marblehead Neck in Summer 


. 109 


" Joys Go by Me" 


110 


The House . . . .- 


111 


Service 


112 


Auf Wiedersehen .... 


113 


Often in Dreams ' ' 


. 114 


Cease Not to Pray for Me ' ' 


. 115 


Poem ...... 


. 116 


Diverging- 


. 123 


G. C 


. 124 


Hie Jacet W. A 


125 


Without Her 


126 



JOSEPH WARREN CHAPMAN 

1855 — 1909 

Joseph Warren Chapman was born in the 
town of Marblehead, Massachusetts, on the 
26th of November, 1855. He was the son of 
the late Joseph Warren and Louisa Morse Chap- 
man, and came of good old English stock. 

The foundation of his education was laid in 
the public schools of his native town, and after 
passing through the high school he entered 
Dartmouth College, graduating in the class of 
'79. His taste for literature early revealed 
itself, and long before the beginning of his colle- 
giate course he had made marked progress in 
its study, principally that of the English poets. 
The effect of this was afterwards noticeable in 
the proficiency he attained in his literary studies 
at college. But his literary work was by no 
means confined to the poets. He was a broad 
reader, and after leaving college taught success- 
fully a number of classes in English, French and 



viii JOSEPH WARREN CHAPMAN 

German literature, and also delivered courses of 
lectures on the poems of Shakespeare, Browning 
and Tennyson, as well as on some of the novels 
of Thackeray, in a manner which demonstrated 
fully his strong- literary taste and keen percep- 
tion. The enthusiasm which he brought to bear 
on his work, and his interesting: method of teach- 
ing, created a lasting love of good literature in 
the minds of many of those who came under 
his instruction. 

For many years Mr. Chapman was a teacher 
by profession, having been principal of the 
Lincoln, Va., Academy, and a teacher at Dean 
Academy, Franklin, Mass. ; Mitchell's Boys' 
School, Billerica, Mass., and other educational 
institutions. For six years or more he was 
at the head of the Marblehead High School, 
where he fitted for college, and there he made 
a brilliant record. 

In the fall of 1889 Mr. Chapman, with his 
family, removed to Pueblo, Colorado, where he 
took charge of the Centennial High School. 
His work in this school was eminently success- 
ful. But after a few years he decided to give 
up school teaching and identified himself with 
library work, for which he was peculiarly fitted. 
His work as librarian of the McClelland Public 
Library, which extended over many years, will 



JOSEPH WARREN CHAPMAN ix 

long- be remembered by the people of Pueblo, 
the library through his efforts having- been 
raised to a hig-h standard of efficiency. He 
retained this position until failing- health 
compelled him to retire, against the wishes and 
to the great regret of the patrons of the library. 

Mr. Chapman was married on November 24, 
1885, to Miss Julia Prichard of Nashua, N. H. 
One son, Edward Prichard, and three daugh- 
ters, Katherine, Edith and Janet, blessed the 
union, all of whom, with the exception of Kath- 
erine, who passed away in 1896, survive him. 

Mr. Chapman, although never robust, accom- 
plished purposes and overcame obstacles which 
would have disheartened many a stronger man. 
Soon after the death of his young daughter, his 
health began to fail, and for ten years he was 
an invalid. His indomitable will, however, 
stood him in good stead, and he was able by 
sheer force to devote his time to his duties up 
to within three years of his departure from this 
life. He died at Pueblo, January 14, 1909, the 
interment taking place at Roselawn Cemetery, 
where the earthly remains of his mother had 
been laid at rest sixteen years before. 

Mr. Chapman possessed a fine poetic feeling, 
and an apparent ease of versification, and was 
a versatile and forceful writer of prose as well 



x JOSEPH WARREN CHAPMAN 

as metrical forms. He made many contribu- 
tions to current literature, notably of verse, some 
of which attracted no small attention. He was 
an untiring- student, a clear and deep thinker, 
a voluminous reader, and was strongly inter- 
ested in great questions. His energy and 
enthusiasm were well nigh boundless, and, in 
whatever task he chose to perform, he manifested 
a zeal which was inspiring. 

He was a man of deep religious conviction, 
having been an earnest and consistent member 
of the Episcopal Church, with the work of which 
he was for many years closely identified, both 
as vestryman and as lay-reader. 

He was no club-man, in the accepted sense of 
that term, but was connected with several 
organizations which especially appealed to him. 
He was strongly interested in Freemasonry, hav- 
ing been a member of Silver State Lodge, No. 
95, of Pueblo, being demitted by the old and 
historic Philanthropic Lodge of Marblehead, 
whose charter was granted one hundred and 
fifty-three years ago and bears the signature of 
Paul Revere, renowned in the annals of New 
England. He was also a member of the 
Society of Colonial Wars and the Sons of the 
Revolution, in which societies he took con- 
siderable interest. 



JOSEPH WARREN CHAPMAN xi 

It was not alone in his knowledge and love 
of literature that his attainments were con- 
spicuous. His temperament was distinctly 
artistic, and he possessed a great love of the 
beautiful in both nature and art. He reveled 
in pictures, geological specimens, flowers, and 
in nature generally, making a comprehensive 
study of those subjects, which so strongly 
attracted him. His knowledge of botany was 
thorough and it was his habit to make a study 
of plants in whatever locality he chanced to be. 
Some years ago he made a collection of living 
specimens of the cacti of Colorado, which was 
remarkably complete, and which is still thriving 
in the garden of his late home at Pueblo. For 
many years he had been interested in genealogy 
and after his condition became such that he was 
unable to devote his time to his regular work, 
he applied himself particularly to genealogical 
research. And in this study he displayed the 
same painstaking care that actuated him in 
whatever task he undertook. In the study of 
this science, as well as of all other subjects in 
which he was interested, it was evident he be- 
lieved firmly that ' ' whatever is worth doing at 
all is worth doing well." 

Mr. Chapman's attachment to the place of 
his birth was noticeably strong. It might with 



xii JOSEPH WARREN CHAPMAN 

truth be said that he loved every rock on her 
shore, every stone in her streets, every flower 
in her fields, as his affection for his native town 
was strikingly deep, and was by no means les- 
sened by the years spent elsewhere. Her 
people were his people, and their interests were 
his. Whatever tended to the material welfare 
of the town, or its people, touched a respon- 
sive chord in his heart. 

In Mr. Chapman the term friendship found 
its real expression. To him the bond of friend- 
ship was inviolable, and once your friend he 
was your friend always. It was the privilege 
of the writer to enjoy his friendship from boy- 
hood days — a friendship which the years could 
not efface — and the memory of that rich friend- 
ship, which gave far more than it demanded 
and which never was known to fail, is a legacy 
to be cherished. 

In reviewing his life, it seems to those who 
knew him best that his most prominent char- 
acteristic was his helpful spirit. He was a 
power for good, among the young especially, 
and many a man living to-day can look back 
with feelings of gratitude to the helpful influ- 
ence which Mr. Chapman exerted over him 
during his early manhood when his character 
was undergoing formation. He taught ever 



JOSEPH WARREN CHAPMAN xiii 

the beauty of goodness, and caused many 
young minds to realize the truth of the 
poet's declaration, 

" 'T is only noble to be good," 

than which can there be any higher work ? 

But it was not as a guiding spirit to youth 
alone that his influence was felt. His counsel 
and aid were sought constantly, not only by 
boys, but by mothers as well, and by teachers 
also, who went to him with their troubles and 
found ever a sympathetic and practical coun- 
selor. His desire to help in the adjustment of 
the difficulties of those who solicited his advice 
did not stop at verbal assistance : it was made 
all the more effective, whenever he deemed it 
necessary, by financial aid, and at times when 
his purse could ill afford to be opened thus, 
and, furthermore, despite the fact that there 
was no prospect whatever of the sums advanced 
being refunded. It was sufficient to him that 
he could lend a helping hand to one in need. 

It would seem, therefore, that no more fitting 
sentiment could be inscribed to his memory 
than the following : 

" Write me as one -who loved his fellow-men." 

G. C. 



POEMS 



POEMS 



MARBLEHEAD 

There is none like our mother in the land ! 
Such grace as hers, such warm, impulsive 

heart ! 
Such will, too, strong as her gray rocks that 
part 
The squadron waves when mustering on her 

strand ! 
Stout souls her children are — a valiant band ! 
They carve her name ahigh in Honor's mart; 
They write her praise on Time's eternal 
chart ; 
For men are they of sturdy heart and hand ! 
And who but loves her for her gracious self ? 
Who is not proud her humblest child to be ? 
Freedom she gives us with our every 
breath, 
Not born of servile wills, nor gilded pelf, 
But of her winds and her green -girdling sea, 
And sweet as love, ay, strong as bitter 
death. 



LANCELOT AND GUINEVERE 

Then came Sir Bors de Ganis pleading- thus : 

My lord Sir Lancelot, go not, I pray ; 
To ride now in this realm — to ride alone 
Where friends are few, betokens danger great ! ' ' 
" Speak not, I go !" returned then Lancelot, 
And buckled tight the shield upon his arm. 
" Sith ye will go, then must I g;o with thee ; 
In name of love I bear thee, grant me this !" 
" Not so, Sir Bors !" again spake Lancelot — 
The truest lover he of loving men, 
The noblest friend and bravest of all knights 
That served King Arthur, very flow'r of kings — 
1 ' It may not be. I prithee, plead no more ! 
Ye by my troth should go if any went. 
Alone I seek my lady Guinevere 
Who as I hear is ill and grieved to death 
For that the king:, her lord and mine, is slain. 
But bide ye here full fifteen days for me 
And at that end, if I come not, return 
Unto our country, Ben wick. Fare ye well !" 
No boot it was to strive, for Lancelot 
Gave reins unto his steed and rode away ■ 



LANCELOT AND GUINEVERE 3 

From Dover, rode in haste into the west. 
What thoughts were his, I leave for you to tell, 
You who have been beloved by maidens true 
And could requite them not, save one whose 

love 
Was sin, as thine ; — to whom fair Honor saith, 
In God's name and in friends kip's, what do ye I 
For you to tell, to whom when old and grey, 
And when the hot blood plagued no more thy 

life, 
The Grave saith, Honor now shall croak no more^ 
And ye may have thy will, nor wrong thy frie?idf 

True saith the legend, seven devils wait 

On each man breathing, sent him at his birth ; 

And Lancelot had fought his many times — 

The devils in his blood, and worsted them ; 

The devils at his soul, and put to flight; 

The devils in his heart, but could not slay ; 

And ever and anon they would return 

And tempt him, full oft wearing smile and face 

Of Arthur's queen, my lady Guinevere. 

Yet never once, how sweet so was that smile, 

Yet never once, how fast so ran his blood, 

Yet never once did he betray his friend, 

But bore himself a spotless knight and brave. 

At tourney shows ofttimes at Camelot 

He lent his might to do King Arthur proud ; 

And righted he the wrongs of feeble hands, 



4 LANCELOT AND GUINEVERE 

And damsels plaining-, wandering through the 

land. 
And though he saved from fire for Arthur's love 
As well as his, the queen with treason peised, 
And did his friend full many a worship high 
Yet never he in joust for any prize 
So lay about his foes that horrid fight 
He waged for Arthur's sake within himself. 
And now at last the devils mocked no more 
And bragged to win, for o'er these worst of foes 
The Knight was victor — battle hardly won ! 

Sad musing on his life in all its length, 
Its joys and losses, seven days he rode 
Toward that fair couch where Phcebus sinks to 

rest. 
The winds blew as he rode through leaves that 

hung 
And flaunted like green banners o'er his head; 
The light streamed down in laughing rills of 

gold 
And made upon his shield a mimic sun ; 
The meadow-lark looked from her bush in fear 
As by he sped ; the golden lizard too 
With speckled side crept from her mossy rock 
And wondered ; but the maiden ferns alone 
Nodded Good-day ! to jingle of his bells. 
And so he sped on charger white as milk 



LANCELOT AND GUINEVERE 

And on the morn of the eighth day he came 
Unto the nunnery where bode the queen. 



Here straight he entered leaving shield without 
And sword, and pushing visor up as on 
He strode to music of his ringing spurs. 
As haply in some dove-cote comes the hawk 
Spreading confusion in the quiet home, 
Among the nuns appeared this warlike man. 
An instant only and the abbess, she 
That erst was queen, in robe of white and black 
Came down the hall, sooth as the kingbird doth 
Outspring when robber birds fly near her nest, 
She, who had held the tower 'gainst the siege 
Of traitor Mondred, made her haste to ask 
Who dared intrude. "Fair sir," was all she 

said 
For then she saw the scar across the brow 
That her good knight had bought her life withal, 
And saw the arms outstretched to fold their 

own 
And knew that he was Lancelot, her love. 
Ah, God! the passion of that moment's heart! 
After long years to find the fount of youth 
When death alone hath charms to fee the life ! 
To grope in darkness long and find at last 
A lamp unto the feet when night is done ! 
To feel earth's crown when heav'n beckons us 



6 LANCELOT AND GUINEVERE 

And fear our strength to choose this once our 
God! 

She spake no word, she uttered never cry 
But as the lily in the meadow falls — 
The scarlet lily when the cruel scythe 
Creeps round her tender feet, so did the queen. 
All with white faces hie the nuns and take 
The fainting- abbess, chafing her soft hands 
And bathing cheek and brow all deadly pale. 
Then one who erst had known Sir Lancelot 
In those old days now left so far behind, 
And loving her had followed Guinevere 
In flight from Mondred, thus between her tears : 
" How dare ye come, my lord Sir Lancelot, 
To snare her soul within this holy place ! 
Be off! an ye be man, for know that she 
Hath pledged her love unto the living God, 
And now is abbess here. Begone, I say, 
And tempt not God's elect! " Then Lancelot: 
" Why storm ye so, I will not rob your home, 
My two-year nestling." More he would have 

said 
But on the lovely eyes where darkness sat, 
The blue -veined lids 'gan quiver and to break 
As fair-haired morn arising from the wave. 
Anon from her dark lustrous eyes of night 
The soul looked out and smiled as when light 

broke 



LANCELOT AND GUINEVERE 7 

From primal darkness, ere the morn was morn. 
11 Is't ye, my knight? Oh, Lancelot!'' she 
sobbed. 

Yea, Guinevere ! At last, my own ! At last ! ' ' 
And rained his kisses on her little hand 
Nestling- so like a dove within his own. 

Oh, Lancelot ! ' ' she sobbed ; ' ' O Love ! ' ' and 
wept. 
Then he : Mine wert thou ere this life began. 
Mine always though our Arthur took to wife, 
Mine ever now that fate hath done her worst. 
Death cannot quench our love, nor stars ma- 
lign." 
But sudden drew she from his grasp her hand 
And spake : ' ' No more ! I prithee say no more ! 
Thy love forbear, I am not worthy it. 

Lancelot ! Wot ye not by this robe 
That I am bride of Christ ? and wot ye not 

1 am the mother of this flock of God ? 

No more of love ! These earthlies have an end. 
Oh, seek a love that dwells beyond the stars 
Where peace abides and sin may never come." 
He answered only with his dole and moan, 
His princely head low bowing to her feet. 
From off her seat uprose the pallid queen 
And standing, lay her hand upon his head. 
" Go, now, O fondest lover, truest friend, 
Leave me forever least I be foresworn. 
Take to thy arms and throne some woman pure 



8 LANCELOT AND GUINEVERE 



More worthy thee than I, whose life is sped, 
Whose eyes will ne'er behold the spring- again 
Make glad with bloom the lawns at Joyous 

Gard." 
" No boot is it to mock !" he answer made. 
"My day is done, if ye be not its light ! 
I minded me to take thee to my home, 
But sith ye cannot, will not, let it pass." 
' O God, my God, but give me strength to 

hold!" 
She prayed with hands across upon her breast. 
And on his throne in Heav'n, God list and 

heard ; 
For then the other kissed her garment's hem 
Passionately, rose up and sudden said: 
God lend thee grace ! God give thee of his 

strength ! 
I would not make life harder, Guinevere. 
I go. Farewell ! God's love be thine alway ! 
And so forever, fare ye well ! ' ' 



He turned 
And straight with manly stride, he went. 
The abbess stirred not in her place until 
The tinkling bells shook on the quiet air 
And faded to the ear and he was gone, — 
Forever gone beyond her heart's recall. 
Then to her nuns about she looked and spake : 
11 My sisters, lead me to my bed." And then : 



LANCELOT AND GUINEVERE 9 

11 Pray for my soul, my sisters, as for one 
That strives as Jacob strove, that God may bless. 
Now leave me. I would tell my beads alone !" 
And so she prayed and struggled noon and 

night, 
But God was with her, and anon he blessed. 
But Lancelot rode on into the wood, 
And wot ye well his heart within was sad, 
The day seemed night, and night begot no rest. 
At times he heard far off the nightingale 
Pouring her song adown some bosky glade, 
And wept, O Philomel \ thou pities t me/ 
And once the screech owl laughed above his 

head 
In hellish glee as if a fiend it was. 
So riding, last he came at early morn 
Unto a chapel, unto a hermitage 
Set like a nest 'neath mighty cliffs and tall. 
The bell for mass was ringing. Sick at heart 
He was and fain to enter here and bide. 
And at this quiet inn from strife apart, 
He bode until at last Death found him out, 
The peerless knight, Sir Lancelot du Lac. 



SKIPPER DIMOND 

Old Skipper Dimond of Marblehead, 
Leagned with the Devil ! the fishers said. 

Never was luck like his before 
Seen by any on wave or shore. 

Always full was his haul of fish, 
Plenty came to his every wish — 

Mattered not where he cast his hook, 
Always the largest fish he took ; 

Any haddock or cod could he, 

His fellows said, draw from the sea, 

On smallest hook that ever was seen, 
And baitless, too, they swore, I ween. 

All mysteries of wind and sun 

Of moon and storms and tides that run, 

Taught was he by the plover's cry 
And the sea-crow's calling - from the sky. 



SKIPPER DIMOND 11 

The stormy petrel as he passed 
Under his dory's side, so fast ; 

The birds of passage in their flight 
At early morn, or autumn night; 

The dog-faced seal, the porpoise black, 
With belly white and rounded back ; 

In short all creatures of sea and air, 
Had secrets to tell him, wild and rare. 

Good luck was his as well on shore, 
For sickness came not to his door ; 

One daughter from his marriage bed ; 

A score were born for his neighbor's bread. 

The winds that laid the farmer's corn 
For his, were gentle as winds unborn. 

When winter drifted high the snow, 

All clear his paths, the winds would blow. 

His dory never went adrift ; 
His soul, like wheat no evils sift ! 

The home he freed of every debt, — 

Do you know his house? it is standing yet, 



12 SKIPPER DIMOND 

Gray and old, at the foot of a hill 
Where the sea winds ever laugh their fill, 

Where the old folk, weeping, left their dead, 
The old burial hill of Marblehead. 

Here wild rose and the clover sweet 
Burn on the heart, and hold the feet 

Of lovers, alas ! remembered not ! 
Of the well beloved, ah, me ! forgot! 

Out on this hill — it was long ago, 

The old man wandered, in rain and snow ; 

For they say whenever a storm began, 
The dead returned to this strange man ; 

And night by night he loved to walk, 
And call the dead in their shrouds to talk. 

Power they gave him, from the grave, 
For wrecking vessels, and power to save ; 

And often above the loud winds there 

He was heard to talk with the sprites of air. 

They say he could tell and sometimes did, 
Where stolen treasures were lying hid ; 



SKIPPER DIMOND 13 

He knew the future as the past ; 
They say it cost him his soul at last ! 

Old Dimond, fisher of Marblehead, 
Sold to the Devil! the people said. 

Now life like his on sea or shore 
Means growing- envy, more and more. 

And though he kept to himself apart, 
I ween the skipper had a heart ; 

For as one by one, the neighbors by 
Went with a scornful look and eye, 

He called them, fools ! mistaking- thrift 
And shrewd endeavor, for Satan's gift. 

Yet I cannot doubt that he felt, can you ? 
He had paid its price for what he knew. 

So in lonely mood on hill or sea, 

He lived in his own thought's company ; 

The wind was a fellow he loved right well, 
The sea had stories enougfh to tell ; 

And, if he missed what men find fair, 
He g-ave no token anywhere ; 



14 SKIPPER DIMOND 

But bravely his duties one by one, 
Rose up to meet with the morning sun. 

Till the oil of life was fully spent, 
And from his dwelling- the spirit went. 

They buried him somewhere on the hill, 
We know not now, but I fancy still 

The grave of their lover, the sea-winds know. 
And the gulls, as overhead they go ; 

The loveless life of this wizard old 

Has running through it a thread of gold. 

If he cursed his scorners on to woe, 
He cursed as man, — we will let that go ! 

Gainsay it now who can or will, 
An angel dwelt in that heart of ill. 

This old, rough fisher, the Devil's own 
Was kind to the sick and poor and lone ; 

And I hear a voice by an inland sea, 
Who gives to the least, gives unto me / 

And granting the fish-wives all they say, 
That the skipper was never known to pray, 



SKIPPER DIMOND 15 

That his were secrets beyond the rest 
Of mortal men, and not the best ; 

I dare not forget, though the Devil's own, 
He gave unto Christ, in the sick and lone ; 

Even he, Dimond of Marblehead, 
Who served the Devil ! all men said. 



GRANT— CUSDOS 

August 8 th, 1885 

My Clio, descend thou from heaven, descend, O 

muse of the scroll, 
And say to our trembling- hearts what sounds 

like the wails of dole 
Fly north from a land curse-delivered, a race 

out of bondage and free, 
Fly cross the desert and Rockies from where 

sets the sun in the sea ; 
And from over the broad Atlantic, that moth- 
er-land of ours, 
And rise from the lakes in the northland, and 

out of New England's bowers? 
Say, wherefore, thou goddess of glory; what 

name with thy adamant pen 
Dost thou write with the tears of a nation, 

what man among* men ? 

These cries of lamentation are for a nation's 
dead: 



GRANT — CUSDOS 1 7 

The savior of a nation is wept to-day, she 

said. 
From hamlet and from city, from mountain 

and from shore 
No heart but beats in sorrow for his that beats 

no more. 
No sordid soul so narrow, in all Columbia's 

land, 
But hails her flag of beauty, kept by his val- 
iant hand. 
No race within her borders, the home that 

freedom gave, 
Now mocks her sons and daughters with fet- 
ters of the slave ; 
But brothers reunited again in love and trust, 
Lament the warrior fallen, and weep upon his 

dust. 
So, ye his gallant comrades of the bleeding 

fields of Mars, 
Place on his hearse the laurel and the glorious 

stripes and stars, 
And be it yours to honor, with drum and mar- 
tial tread, 
The great man lying silent, our hero lying 

dead. 
Ye civic halls, surrender thy glorious pen and 

voice, 
And lend thy tribute proudly to the nation's 
honored choice. 



18 GRANT — CUSDOS 

Ye lofty homes and splendid, ye cabins lowl} r 

reared, 
Put on the weeds of mourning- for him who 

once hath cheered 
Thy hearthstones with his wisdom, and kept 

them with his might 
In the bitter dark of error, in the sinful dark 

of night. 
Ye altars of the Lord God, at whose com- 
mandment dread, 
Moses of old from bondage the chosen people 

led, 
Hang all thy horns with fillets of flowing 

black and white, 
His strong- right arm hath bravely fought in 

thy cause of right ; 
His good sword in the scabbard, so idle now 

and still, 
Flew like the sword at Eden, and did Jeho- 
vah's will. 
No tarnish on its luster! Ye priests of God, 

give praise ! 
No tarnish on its glory, the sword of evil 

days ! 
But a race made free and happy — no binding 

shame and fears — 
That shed above him silent, the happy meed 

of tears ; 



GRANT — CUSDOS 19 

A land made whole and quiet of the bitter- 
ness of strife, 

A land made sound and happy with the joy- 
ousness of life. 

See, down from off the mountain to where the 
river flows 

With a nation's lamentation the funeral cor- 
tege goes. 

From the dearest hearts that sorrow to a 
grateful people's hand, 

Your noblest dead is borne by the noblest of 
your land. 

While drooping as in sorrow from mast and 
lofty spire, 

The flag of snow and azure hangs, of snow 
and fire ; 

And behind to do him honor comes a people, 
eager, free — 

Comes a lion stalking, the guard of liberty. 

But, muse, my muse of heaven, thou of the 

scroll and pen, 
Where wilt thou write his name of light, this 

man of men ? 

With Lincoln's fame I will write his name, a 

son of glory ; 
The deeds Grant has done, like Washington, 

shall live in story. 



TO CLARENCE 

1881—1882 

Wherefore, Clarence ? baby, why 
Wast thou sent us from the sky ? 
O'er what way to us unknown, 
Through! what perils all alone, 
Didst thou venture for our joy, 
Princely stranger, baby-boy? 
From a land of far delight 
Thou didst come to glad our sight, 
Sovereign prince, by whose decree 
We are subjects unto thee. 

Couldst thou guess it, dost thou know 

That thy coming here below 

Lent all common things a grace, 

As a smile upon a face ? 

Life was aimless till we knew 

All thy high behests to do ; 

Life was empty all until 

Sweet love bound us to thy will ; 



TO CLARENCE 21 

Evermore we bow the knee, 
Own thy gracious sovereignty ! 

Once, my Clarence, o'er the sea 
Came to earth a Babe like thee ; 
And who tell the story, say 
He, the Prince of princes, lay 
In a poor and lowly bed. 
And the Babe, when years had fled, — 
King- of all the world was he, 
Prince of land and sky and sea ! — 
With a gracious tongue and hand 
Sought 'lis own in all the land. 
But the vorld knew not its king 
Though le gave it everything, ' 
Till at laStt upon the Tree 
Gave his life for such as we. 
Thou, m} baby, mayst not know 
How Chri.t loved thee long ago ! 
Thou, my darling, canst not guess 
What He pirchased by distress ! 
Truer love's thine to-day, 
Better liegenen we, I say, 
That the Ba>e across the sea, 
Lived and did for thine and thee. 



Life, my littkman, at best 
Is a riddle all unguessed ; 



22 TO CLARENCE 

And the soul, my child, a spark, 
Struck by One from out the dark. 
Here it burns its little day 
Then in darkness fades away. — 
How it is we men forget, 
Canst thou, boy, remember yet? 

Life at one year is a toy, — 
Laugh and hail it, little boy ! 
Laugh and greet the rosy morn 
Of the day when thou wast bori ! 
Laugh aloud and tell the day 
We are glad it came this way 
Laugh and hail it, laughing by, 
For in sooth life is a toy ! 

Then sing, ye birds, on evey tree ! 
Open, flow'rs, on hill and l<a ; 
Skip, ye lambkins, in the feld ! 
Sunlight, all thy glory yied ! 
Laughing brooklet, stop aid pay 
Homage due on this birthday ! 
Vassals, lowly bow the kiee, 
Own his gracious soveregnty ! 

Happy boy ! no words <f rhyme 
Needed are to pledge is thine. 
Happy prince! whose ove's decree 



TO CLARENCE 23 

Is the law's sufficiency! 
Happy sire, and happy heart 
Where thou sleepest all apart ! 
Happy we who live to sing 
Birthday greetings, little king! 

Blest the day that gave thee birth, 
Bringing Heaven unto earth ! 



ON THE PORTRAIT OF A FRENCH 
MARQUISE 

(Of the time of Louis XIV) 

Prithee, madam, speak and say 

Are you not looking - desolee f 

But why ? because your frame of gold 

Tells to ev'ry one you are old ? 

What if the gilding peel and fall, 

None would look at that at all ; 

Nor could it matter if it were so 

You have not lost your youth, you know. 

Still you smile as you used to do 

When the marquis came to sue ; 

Still the rose on your cheek is bright 

And your tresses dusky night ; 

Bless us ! quite in vogue just now, — 

Running" ringlets o'er the brow ; 

And is no turquois more true 

Unto heaven, eyes, than you. 

Not a trace of tears or care 

Hangs about you anywhere. 

Time has gently touched the grace 



PORTRAIT OP A FRENCH MARQUISE 25 

Of your flower-like, painted face. 
Still — nor on your cheek nor brow, 
And your lips are sweet enow ! — 
Still a something: in the air 
Stands beside you, madam, there ; 
Not unfelt, though hardly seen 
Like the grandeur of a queen. 
Maid or page? I prithee, speak, 
When you donned your moire antique 
And came smiling down the stairs 
Who had vexed you unawares ? 
Or perhaps my lordship's gout 
Made him storm until a pout 
Almost budded on this mouth, 
Warm and luscious as the south. 
Who can guess? Perchance the queen, 
When you called, would not be seen ; 
Or the painter, — ugly, ah ? 
Old and stupid — rCest ce pas f 
Who can tell us ? None but you, 
Marquise avec les yeux de bleu. 
Ah, madame, 't was not your way 
When le grand monarque held sway 
To refuse one little word 
To a suitor, if you heard. 
Surely, madam, you 're not she 
Full of life and repartee ; 
Yet the same and yet not so — 



26 PORTRAIT OF A FRENCH MARQUISE 

Where 's the laughing- with les beaux f 

Where 's the flit of dainty fan ? 

Even that is under ban ! 

Ah, you 're silver, she was gold, 

For this silence is too cold. 

All this beauty in repose 

Is indeed a scentless rose. 

Too a canker mars the grace, 

Slightly mars it — of this face. 

'T is not either here nor there, 

Just a little less than care ; 

Just, marquise, enough to say 

You 're looking a trifle disolee. 



A PRAYER FOR LIGHT 

I stretch my yearning soul to Thee, 
Beloved, far across life's sea; 
I strike the strings of self's full harp 
And waiting", listen, in the dark. 

'Mid gathered mist of stormy days 
My being gropeth divers ways ; 
A prayerful cry I send to Thee, 
" O Master, Christ, that I may see! " 

I long for light that I may know 
That higher Life that loveth so ; 
When shall my Jiarp be tuned aright, 
And I, O God, bask in thy sight ! 

I cry in longing for the light 
To bear me onward through the night : 
A blind man's wail is born in me, 
" Rabboni, help ! I cannot see ! " 

June 5, 1875 



THE FISHER MAIDEN 

Lo, a little fisher maiden, 

Flits over the flowing- sands, 
And sings as she gathers the drift-wood 

In her sun-brown, dimpled hands. 

She knows not I am watching 

As she sings 'mid the sand birds there, 
And the sea winds do not tell her 

As they toy with her streaming hair. 

Sweet is that untaught music 

Unfettered by rules or art ; 
That quaint love song, and tender, 

Is the voice of a love-glad heart. 

Ah, nut-brown fisher maiden, 
Has Love with his cunning ways 

Found e'en the hut of the fisher 
Here by the white-capped waves ? 



THE FISHER MAIDEN 29 

And somewhere out on the water 

Is a fisherman's boat in sight, 
That bring-s to thy heart, O maiden, 

Thy fisher love to-night ? 

Oh, happy that lover toiling- 

Somewhere on the tossing sea ! 
Would I had a fisher maiden 

Singing- for love of me ! 



"IN THAT DEAR HOUR" 

Bring not, O friends, in that sweet hour, 

When I am dead, 
The rose or heliotrope or any flow'r 

For hand or coffin-lid. ' 

Least some dear friend, most loved of those 

That seek my door, 
Might thro' his tears espy the rose 

And hate it evermore. 

I dare not in its golden heart, 

Enshrine a face, 
Might haunt the sweet with subtile art 

Thro' all the darling's race. 

I would not that their fragrant breath , 

For my poor sake, 
Should fill the summer thought with death, 

Should bitter tears awake. 

Too sacred are these living blooms 
For tears and woe : 



"IN THAT DEAR HOUR" 31 

Such joy tints are but meet for rooms 

Where glad hearts come and go. 

O not for my own self I pray, — 

I shall not know ; 
'T is love's fair lips alone would say, 

' ' O dear friends, be it so ! " 

Then while these feet of mine shall run 

In life's fair day,' 
O bring: ye blooms that love the sun 

And all of summer's way. 

But when our mother holds me fast 

On her dark breast ; 
When from this dust the soul hath passed 

To its eternal rest, 

Then bring - not rose or asphodel 

In that dear hour, 
Bring not the sweets we 've loved so well 

To crown and be death's flow'r. 



"THY LITTLE SONG" 

Thy little song- is ringing- 
E'en now on my spirit's ear, 

The little song that won me, 
Unto thy heart, my dear. 

Sad was I, sad and weary 

Under the night and wet ; 
Within there was light and music, 

And joy and beauty met. 

Wide out the open casement, 

Into the pitch-dark night, 
Over the milk-white lilies, 

Flooded the golden light. 

Away from the warmth and gladness, 
From out the silken throng, 

On tremulous wings there fluttered 
To my heart thy little song. 

Ay, there it came and nestled 
From the gaping- world apart ; 



"THY LITTLE SONG" 33 

And fills with its wondrous music 
This dark and restless heart. 

And ever it is ringing- 
Still sweet on my spirit's ear 

The song- that won me, won me, 
Unto thy heart, my dear. 



TO-MORROW 

"To-morrow, Dearie," oft I say 
To my baby boy at play ; 

Leave the picture and the ball ; 
Hark ! 't is bed-time, — mamma's call 
You shall have them, Dearie, all, 
To-morrow ! ' ' 

O foolish hearts of ours to bleed ! 
O foolish tears, where is the need ! 
Hark ye ! The Father takes away 
Our treasures for, as 't were, a day ; 
Be patient ! — you may hear Him say, 
To-morrow ! ' ' 



"AS OFT BEFORE" 

Only yesterday she said, 
Smiling- bravely as of yore, 
On the morrow from my bed 
I shall rise as oft before. 

' You will haply meet me, dear, 
On the stair or crowded street, 
As you come to bring: me here 
Daily meed of roses sweet." 

For my tears I could not see 

As I kiss'd her, cheek and brow ; 

And my hand caressingly 

Said what lips could not avow. 

At the rise of sun to-day, 

With my roses, white and red, 

To her door I took my way, 

And they told me she was dead. 

And they led me where she lay 
In her shroud, so still and white ; 



36 "AS OFT BEFORE" 

And I seem'd to hear her say, 
As she smiling said last night : 

' You may haply meet me, dear, 

On the street or at my door ; 
I shall pass both there and here, 
As I ever pass'd before." 



AN EPITAPH 

Say not that he who lies below is dead 
But rather, He we lov'd was wont to wear 
A garb of flesh, bedecked with joy and care, 
And with the nerves of motion fashioned ; 
And fondly say, One day he donn'd instead 
A robe befitting courts supremely fair 
And God's high presence; nothing could 
compare 
Of earthly glory with it ; and that he said : 
Weep not, dear friends, that now I go away, 

For ye will follow soon; in some pure sphere 
We V/ meet to joy again. 

So smiling, say, 
The garment that he wore is lying here ; 
But he, as birds the summer sometime lent, 
Hath left us, lone, grieving, yet half -con tent ! 



NOT RE-ELECTED 

"With the exception of Miss , all the other 

teachers were re-elected." — Local Papers. 

"I'll say this much for her, her children were as 
well prepared as any that came to me last year." — 
Teacher of the next higher grade. 

"Well, she's getting a little old, you know."— 
School-Committee Man. 

All re-elected, the papers say, 

But one exception, — only one ; 
And she ? A teacher old and gray 

With faithful service done. 

I read this news in the twilight here 

And my heart grows sad, it seems the blow 

A hand might give, loved many a year, 
From behind in the dark, you know ; 

For day by day she has served us well, 

And month and year through rain and shine 

Our children were hers — ah, who can tell? — 
With what a love divine ! 



NOT RE-ELECTED 39 

Ay, day by day and year by year — 
God bless her ! let us speak her fair,— 

She led our own with loving- fear, 
Our own with jealous care. 

And now is the faithful heart less so ? 

Or has she forg-otten "A, B, C"? 
O children, once hers, now women, I know 

Ye think not this to be ! 

So I say I read in the twilight dim, 

And my heart is bowed with a touch of 
shame ; 
And her grief is mine, who has faithful been 

For longer than I may name. 

And my scorn is the scorn of each honest 
heart 

For this, sharper than serpent's tooth, ye do 
Who fail in Duty's better part 

Toward a servant tried and true. 



SUR LA RIVIERE" 



On the river boating-, 

'Neath the summer moon, 
'Mid the lilies floating- — 

Life and love attune, — 



Handsome college fellow, 
Dainty blue -eyed maid : 

O the night is mellow, 
Silver light and shade. 



Oars are lightly dripping ; 

Two hands holding one, 
While its mate is dipping 

In the river dun. 



Lilies in the river, 
And a lily face ; 



"SUR LA RIVIERE" 41 

But the lilies never 

Had such winsome grace. 



Two heads slightly bending, 
Golden hair and brown ; 

While the moon is sending 
Silver arrows down. 



Not a soul is seeing, 
And the stars above, 

Never tell a being 
Of the ways of love. 



What are Quaker morals 
Such a time as this ! 

Student from the corals 
Lightly steals a kiss. 



8 



O the joy of greeting 
Thus a maiden's lips, 

Where the willow, meeting, 
In the river dips ! 



42 "SUR LA RIVIERE' 

9 

On the river floating", — 
Overhead the moon : 

Oh, what joy in boating' 
Life and love attune ! 



CLASS ODE* 

"1879" 
Air — "Old Folks at Home * ' 

Bravely we part to sail life's ocean, 

Friends stanch and true, 
Longing to dare its wild commotion 

And each his course renew ; 
Yet sad our hearts to leave forever 

Scenes we hold dear, 
Happy our days in port together, 

Merry our song and cheer. 

Chorus. 

Ev'ry joy partakes of sadness, 

Dim is ev'ry eye ; 
O, brothers, where is all our gladness? 

Gone, as we bid our good-bye. 

1 Written for the class-day exercises at Dartmouth 
College, 1879. 



44 CLASS ODE 

Here have we walked with time's romances, 

Happy each day ; 
Here life has lent us glowing- fancies, 

Holding- our peaceful way ; 
But O, we ling-er here no longer, 

Parting we stand ; 
Yet ne'er love's chain hath bound us stronger- 

Never in heart and hand. 

Chorus. 

Farewell now ev'ry scene and pleasure, 

Sadly we part ; 
Each dear old friend we fondly treasure 

Never shall leave our heart ! 
O what tho' gone beyond returning 

Youth's golden prime, 
Still, still will mem'ry's star be burning, 

Lighting our auld-lang-syne. 

Chorus. 



EMBASSADORS 

The humblest flow'r shall noble be 

And come to court when I am king ; 
They are not way-side weeds to me, 
The nettles and grasses that I see, 
But courtiers in a ring. 

Embassadors sent from a far-off land 

Waiting with message, early and late ; 
Surely we know the signal in hand, 
O heart of mine, go down where they stand, 
And unto them open the gate ! 

Beggars ! we called them ; now behold, 
Here is the seal of the King of kings ! 

The gifts He sends us are manifold ; 

But far more precious than gifts of gold 
The message the rag-weed brings. 

Lord high chancelor, heart of mine, 

Look now who waits before our door ! 
All God's messengers, fair, sublime, 
Are as simply clad as the noisome vine, 
And are waiting evermore. 



FELLOWSHIP 

Sweet friends are mine, — I never walk 

alone, — 
Though all unseen by you they go along-, 
The loving ghosts from out the realm of song, 
With gleeful laugh, or, haply, making moan. 
For me the rose is never over-blown, 
The sparrow mute, though winter tarries long; 
More truly living round my pathway throng 
These birdlike guests from other ages flown. 
They know not death, for they are heavenly 

born. 
I love them all ; I weep with them, I laugh, 
They give my soul of Eunoe's rill to quaff, — 
Helen of Troy ; old Timon clad in scorn ; 
And others many. Hark ! upon the wind, 
From Arden blown, the mock of Rosalind. 



BIRD AND POET 

Nightingale, thou with eyes burnt out, 

Singing- by night and day, 
The whole house listen and never doubt 

But thou art glad alway. 

And poets, ye who laugh and bring 
Your hearts' bloom wrapped in song, 

The whole world, wondering when ye sing, 
Can feel no hurt and wrong. 

O singing bird in a darkened land, 

And thou, O child of art, 
The wise world never can understand, 

Ye sing to ease the heart. 



"THOU ART A FLOW'R ' 

Thou art a flow'r, my childie, 
Tender and fair and shy ; 

I the last year's stubble, 
Bitter and sad and dry. 

Youth is thine, my childie, 
A sunbeam is thy heart ; 

Me, life has tired and wearied 
And I am dead in part. 

My heart is full of weeping, 
My childie, when I see 

Thy fair bloom too must wither 
And as the stubble be. 



BEATRICE CENCI 

From the old Italian palace o'er the sea, 
Comes the rare face that Guido's pencil caught ; 
So fair, so sweet, so yet with anguish wrought. 
The eyes, like violets upon the lea 
With dews all heavy, drooping tearfully, 
And the sweet lips that quiver, yet so fraught 
With girlish laughter; hers, ere shame had 

bought 
With such a price of pain ! White drapery 
Her form enfolds, half hiding curls of gold 
That ripple round the back -turned face. That 

glance 
Perhaps at Clement's heart beat loud and bold, 
Or fell on Giacomo, or flew perchance 
To some fond heart that, watching from afar, 
Had worshiped this one face as life's bright star. 



ISEULT OF IRELAND 

High at a turret's loop — the sea beneath — 
Behold her sitting-, she for all time fair, 
Iseult ; a new day flow'r, no lusty noon 
Hath wanton 'd with. No passion yet hath lit 
The darkness of her calmest eyes. A child, 
E'en thus she kiss'd her royal sire when broke 
The lark the crystal silence of the purpling 

dawn ; 
E'en thus she sang: but now, and touch 'd the 

harp 
Yet warm, to glad the King-. A child wearing 
A woman's height, a maiden's years, robed on 
In samite green. It flows about her form 
And falls a sheeny pool upon the floor. 
Clasping her slender throat a thread of gold ; 
And winding in her hair of downy night 
A rope of pearls. One hand upon the harp 
And one upon the sill ; a seaward brow 
Above a flow'r-like face, more sweet than 

Love's, 
Fairer than angels' are ! 



ISEULT OF IRELAND 51 

O Iseult, princess, 
Thou turn' st where the blue waves wash the 

sands 
And fate makes port, beneath thy lightful smile, 
As a woman's lot is ever, with hope's ej^es, 
To watch Love, self -ward glide unto her life. 
But turn thee, Iseult, to thy songs again: 
The waves that kiss that prow oncoming, glad 
Would steal thy breath. Marc's messenger 

would rob 
The father's bower, and after, steal the flow'r 

from Marc. 
O look not greetings with thy lovely eyes 
On Tristram, the tear-born, luckless tool of 

Fate! 
But be the child, Iseult, of yesterday, 
And hiding in its folds, shun stars and moon ; 
For night hath snares to catch the feet of Peace, 
And each new dawn brings destiny to man. 



IN NOVEMBER 

Along the road like blood upon the snow 
The round hips glow; beside the lichened 

wall 
And tumbled fence the tansy, sere and tall, 
Nods to the curled-head yarrow ; and arow 
The locusts shake their dry pods as we go. 
There is no sun. The clouds hang- like a pall 
Dreary and dun. The fitful wind flecks all 
The sea with foam, and tosses to and fro 
The silent choirs where late the thrushes met. 
Above our heads the sea-crow wings his way 
To where, sea-lapped, the long- black 
ledg-es lie. 
With a lorn air the sick -green willows yet, 
Beside their tongue-tied brook, sit all the day 
And seem to sweep in vain the cheerless 
sky. 



FOR MARGUERITE 

With the hip and thorn of winter, 

I deck, as it were, a shrine, 
Thy picture that looks upon me, 

My friend of the olden time. 
Then hope was worth the asking", 

And ycu sang - my boyish rhyme ; 
And love was yours for the singing:, 

For the song-, thy love, was mine. 

The hips I bring- as a symbol 

Of bloorc that no more may be ; 
The cheek I kissed as a rose-leaf 

Has faded and passed from me. 
Though life like a flower is fleeting:, 

Man's hope as foam of the sea ; 
While breath, sweet wife, is breathing-, 

My love still abides with thee. 

And I bring: the thorns to show men, 
Whoever may care to know, 

In my heart are the floods of winter 
And the drift ii sorrow's snow. 



54 FOR MARGUERITE 

With thee my sunshine vanished — 
I shall find no more below — 

The laughter of all God's beauty, 
Wherever I haply go. 

So with hip and thorn of winter 

I garland, sweet wife, to-day 
Thy face as first you loved me, 

And so shall it be for aye. 
I have folded in love immortal 

Thy love in my heart, to stay 
When the world has crumbled to sshes, 

And is blown as chaff away. 

March. 1881 



SONNET 

Fate found me out and walk'd for days with 
me; 
I listen 'd to her mystic talk but I 
Could solve no look of hers nor guess the 
why 
She so sought me alone, nor spoke of thee, 
Dear Heart, as once, by our high -rolling- sea. 
Then mute she grew until at last with cry 
Wherein love's tone and hatred's seem'd to 
vie, 
She bore me swift o'er plain and mount and 

lea; 
Till from her snaky arms, amaz'd I stood 
Upon the confines of Death's bitter land. 
A Sphinx was there, naught else save but a 
wood 
Wind-blown and vast. I fear'd, but by the 
hand 
One drew me back. I went with her along — 
Love, thou wast she! — with laugh and dance 
and song. 



EVERY-WHERE 

There is no hidden depth or height 

Of full despair, 
No darkest sorrow of the night, 

But Christ is there ! 

The soul divine may leave its flight 

In purest skies, 
And sin, her pinions fair, may blight, 

May blind her eyes ; 

And human hearts with grief and woes 

May buried lie, 
But One, in truth, all anguish knows 

And hears each cry. 

No need is ever mean or small ! 

God's loving care, 
God's fullest comfort, all in all, 

Is every-where. 

' T is joy all earthly joys before ! 
All else is dross : 



EVERY-WHERE 57 

Death's shadows fly our broken door, 
Before the cross ! 

O peace that knoweth no alarm, 

Or care, or fear! 
Secure we rest, 'mid every harm 

Since thou art near ; 

For truly is no depth or height 

Of pain, despair; 
No heaviest sorrow of the night 

But Christ is there ! 



KING SHADDAD 

I have read in the Eastern fables, 

And it haunts me evermore, 
How King- Shaddad grew tired of reigning, 

And his heart was weary and sore ; 

For his court no longer pleased him 
With its lies, its follies and spites, 

But the moon and the nightingale's singing 
And the rose were his sole delights. 

Then he built him a close in the desert, 
A garden apart from the strife, 

Where the bird would ease with his singing. 
And the rose might gladden his life. 

And here in this peaceful garden, 
Where never came grief and pain, 

King Shaddad forgot all the troubles 
That perplexed his heart and brain. 

And at dying the king bequeathed it 
As it were gems or gold, 



KING SHADDAD 59 

To that race who were walking in heaven 
When the gifts of the gods were doled. 1 

Now lost, long lost is that garden 
In the sands of the desert of years, 

Yet how oft, oh, how oft, has its portal 
Swung wide to the children of tears. 

And how often the poets, returning 
To their brothers of sin and distress, 

Have gladdened their hearts with the stories 
Of the beauty, its music and rest ; 

Till the earth seems filled with the singing ; 

And wherever the poet goes 
The air is silver with moonbeams 

And full of the musky rose. 

i The Poet did not make an appearance until the gods 
had portioned out all their gifts to the various other races 
of mortals. He had been walking in heaven, was his 
excuse. Then said the gods, "For thy gift, thou 
shalt be privileged to walk in our high heaven when- 
soever fancy leadeth Thee !"— See Schiller's poems for 
the legend. 



AT DEERING'S FARM 

I know a green bower where peace ever 
dwells, 
And zephyrs steal softly the long summer 
through. 
You may catch the faint tinkle of far-away 
bells, 
Or the swallow's clear note in the welkin of 
blue. 

No other sound comes but the voice of the 
brook, 
Where speckled trout swim, 'neath the long, 
tangled grass ; 
By its side the pale jewel- weed out of its nook 
Flashes gems in the breezes that linger and 
pass. 

The floor is of moss, green and silvery gray, 
The mushroom and jack-in-the-pulpit are 
here ; 



AT DEERING'S FARM 61 

Here the bloodroot outflashes its star every 
May, 
And proclaims to the woodland that summer 
is near. 

The fern and the yarrow leaves hang: from the 
rock, 
And nod to the rill in its dark mossy bed. 
Do you see how the woodbine and grape in- 
terlock, 
And the oak-apple hangs within reach over- 
head? 

The sunlight steals in through the quivering: 
green ; . 
In long, slender lances it pierces the shade. 
How it gleams on the rock where the black- 
alders lean ! 
How it lights the deep pool that the brook- 
let has made ! 

Fair, fair is that bower of green gnarled oaks, 
And blest is the spirit that dwells in the 
place ! 
You might almost expect to see little fay-folks, 
Should you lift but the maiden -hair's feath- 
ery grace. 



62 AT DEERING'S FARM 

How dear is that spot to the heart of my 
heart ! 
Thy vision of oaks, O my friend ! comes 
again ! 
And the pain of my life and its sorrow depart, 
And a peace follows on, as a bow with the 
rain. 



SKATING SONG 

Across the frozen mere we fly 
On winged feet with laugh and cry. 

Hey, ho ! Hey, ho ! Io ! 
The moon is hanging- low and full, 
The hunter fights the heav'nly bull. 

Before the wind we go ! 
Hey, ho ! Io ! 

The lubber hugs the kitchen place — 
We choose the hockey and the race. 

Hey, ho ! Hey, ho ! Io ! 
The skimming ball our love shall be ; 
We follow shouting where they flee. 

Against the wind we go ! 
Hey, ho ! Io ! 

By grasses brown and willows bare 
We dart and flash our sticks in air. 

Hey, ho ! Hey, ho ! Io ! 
For biting cold no thought have we, 
But wheel, and sail a gleaming sea. 

Before the wind we go ! 
Hey, ho! Io ! 



MY FRIEND 

Some men are born fast friends ; their first finding of 
each other is only a second, and they then, like those 
who have been long parted, bring to each other not 
only a future but a past also. 

— From the German of Richter. 

" Oh, deep love for a new friend is not meet ! " 

You say with something bitter in your tone. 
Then do you grant me that the years complete 

The perfect friend, and but the years alone? 
And is there naught save time, and life so 
sweet ? 

Is not the spirit more than blood and bone ? 
This man is not a new friend you saw greet 

Me yesterday. I knew his soul ere moan 
Of life began. We joyed in fields of light 

Together, heart and heart, while eons sped, 
Till on our souls a sleep came as of night 

And we were born. Should I not know, 
though dead, 
My own ! The new is old. Saw you not, say, 

How true unto my heart he knew the way ? 



AFTER DEATH 

Last night I saw thy coffined face, 
And held thy limp, forgetful hand ; 

And in my dream, beside the place 
Came one and wrote upon the sand. 

Then from the earth there rose a cry, 
A rapturous sound as of the blest ; 

The waters answered and the sky, — 
It woke thy pulses from their rest. 

The heart begat her wonted heat, 
And forth you came transfigured all, 

Uprose the dear Lord at our feet, 
Rose up majestic, fair and tall. 

He spake such things I may not say, 
But sweeter were they than content ; 

And smiling, beckoned us away ; 
We gladly followed where He went. 

What joy was ours, as once again, 
Just as of old, we, hand in hand, 



66 AFTER DEATH 

Moved after Him, where doubt and pain 
Could blind no longer in the land ! 

So by clear wells, in fields of light, 
Through gates of gold still on we trod, 

Until the red dawn broke the night, 
And found us on the hills of God. 

Amid the forms that met us there, 
Was one we loved — a gentle boy — 

With old-time smile, and sun-lit hair, 
Nor sea, nor grave could all destroy. 

What greeting ours ! Alas, for me 
That could but tarry till the day ! 

Dear friends of mine, I may not see, 

With Christ and thee, how would I stay ! 

The vision fled and came no more ; 

And through the day I pondered deep : 
Had I been mocked by devils sore, 

Or had I touched the depths of sleep ? 

Dear heart, I know not. This I know, 
Thou hast not left us, night nor day ; 

Since still thou goest where we go, 
In word, in deed, in thought alway. 



"I LOOSED A BIRDLING" 

I loosed a birdling at the door, 
It flew away with song- and cry ; 

And like a joy, it never more 
Came out the southern sky. 

My heart let loose its faith in flight, 
She found a haven far and high. 

I ne'er may claim, tho' day and night 
I mourn her till I die. 

Somewhere the bird is glad with song, 
I doubt not some one lingers nigh ; 

Perhaps the faith makes warm and strong 
Some gladder man than I. 



"AROUND HER COUCH" 

Around her couch we softly crept — 
Our dear one fading" with the day, - 

And o'er her wasted form we wept 
And prayed her feet to stay. 

But while we saw not for our fears, 
A band of angels from on high, 

Unheeding- all our bitter tears, 
Upbore her to the sky. 

May 25 



"WITH THE DYING DAY" 

She left us with the dying day, — 
Serene and brave she put them by, 

The faithful hands, the feet of clay, — 
She dropped them where they lie. 

She left us with the dying day, 
Nor heeded all love's bitter fears ; 

She left behind, who went her way, 
What aching hearts, and tears ! 

October 13 



IN ABSENCE 

Can longest miles that hide thy face from me, 
Can countless years, or anything that blights, 
Blot from this heart the glory rare that lights 
Its darkness up ? I never can be free 
Again from love's sweet presence. Should it be 
We meet no more, I know love's cunning 
rites 
Still, still would witch thy face where man 
indites. 

And, as in violet-time upon the lea 
The South wind blows, thy voice still from the 
flow'r, 
The sunshine, all things fair, would speak, 
would call. 
I know not, dear, if yet from thy fair bow'r 

The birds have fled : this only, all in all, 
Despite the sea between, the mounts that bar, 
Its one white rose makes glad this heart afar. 



MA MIGNONNE 

Sometimes I pass her riding-, 
And then her smile I see ; 

Sometimes I meet her walking", 
She gives her hand to me. 

How could I dare to love her, 
A maid so fair and gx>od ! 

And should she stoop to love me 
Her dainty womanhood, 

'T were as a star of heaven 
Some lowly worm should bless 

And yet I know she loves me, 
And I my love confess. 

So when I meet her riding - , 
Her smile perchance you see, 

Or on the hig-hway walking - , 
Her small hand given me. 

But sure you cannot hear it, 
The word her sweet eyes say ; 



72 MA MIGNONNE 

Or at our parting" guess it, 
I go with her away. 

You hear my foolish babble 
Of waltzers and the ball ; 

' T is but my lips are talking, 
And not myself at all. 

How may you know this maiden, 
The white dove of my heart, 

If you should pass her riding, 
Or walking all apart ? 

I may not tell, I will not, 
But this one token give, 

The maid it is who loves me, 
And in whose love I live. 



PARTED 

They are parted world-wide asunder, 

The distant East and West, 
Yet once were they fondest lovers, 

Close held to each other's breast. 

And the wide, wide ocean sobbing, 

But pities these lovers twain, 
Who in starlight and moonlight and sunlight, 

May only be one in pain. 

For they never can meet, ah, never ! 

The East and his parted bride, 
Till time shall fall in his traces, 

And the gods are dead by his side ! 



AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

I, who am poor in even gracious words, 

Must thank you plainly without craft or 
skill, 
Well knowing: you will find in this, though 
rude, 
The loving- meed of my more gracious will. 

For who could sing ! not sweetest woodland 
bird, 

If mesh'd so kindly in thy heart as I ; 
Nor would I cheapen with a gift of song- 

The love I owe, that not a world could buy. 

So I, who am more proudly rich and poor 
Than fits a poet of so humble mien, 

Send winged loves to bear these golden flow'rs 
That we call Thanks, from out a land un- 
seen. 

Never the winter with his cruel blight 

May touch to mar their amaranthine bloom, 



AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT 75 

And only will they show at last more fair, 
Where lie their native fields beyond the 
tomb. 

So take, dear friend, nor count this meanly 
sent — 
Though fairest gifts befit this happy time ; 
For see ! I tie my thanks with cord of gold 
Though all so poorly wrapp'd in barren 
rhyme. 



THE COMMON LOT 

Once in the flight of ages past 

There lived a man ; and who was he ? 

Mortal, howe'er thy lot be cast, 
That man resembles thee. 

James Montgomery. 

Once in the flight of fashions past 
There lived a girl ; and who was she ? 

Maiden, howe'er thy lot be cast, 
That girl lived just like thee. 

Unknown the size of shoes she wore, 
If striped stockings, all unknown; 

Her name has perished from the earth ; 
This truth remains alone : 

That hoops and basques and such like gear 
Alternate triumphed in her breast, 

Back hair and front — a smile, a tear, 
Nobody knows the rest. 

The lily-white, the bosom-pad, 
The bobbing bustle's rise and fall, 



THE COMMON LOT 77 

We know that these she must have had 
For they are had by all. 

She painted, but it would n't wash, 
And only did n't paint when dead ; 

Had flounces, — flounces always squash, 
And bows, on foot and head. 

She saw whatever styles were worn, 
Encountered all that troubles thee ; 

She tore her dress as thou hast torn, — 
Such things you know must be. 

The rolling- fashions, day and night, 

New cloaks and shawls, short skirt and 
train, 

Erewhile her hobby and delight 
For her exist in vain. 

The flow'rs and feathers on her hat, 
That once were red and after blue, 

Have left in yonder dye house vat 
No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the human race, 
Their fashions since Pa Adam fell, 

Of her afford no other trace 
Than this — a stylish gal. 



LOVE ON WHEELS 

Love on his wheel, — his shining- team, 
As golden Fortune bowls along; ; 

Love lends the summer many a gleam, - 
I lend to Love my song-. 

In shapely grace of thew and limb, 

Apollo Belvedere is he ; 
There 's not a bird that flies can trim 

Himself so daintily. 

A polo black, of velvet, his, 

On tossing- curls that mock the night, 
When nor in heav'n pale Luna is, 

Nor star of twinkling- light. 

His suit is sable as the Dane's, — 
He wears a rose on his lapel ; 

But as he rolls along the lanes, 
With ease I may not tell, 

The roses blooming on his cheek 

Put quite to shame the Jacqueminot ; 



LOVE ON WHEELS 79 

Yet of his bloom I will not speak, 
Enow it is to know, 

That when on merry wings he flies 

In park, or country ways afar, 
The maidens see in his dark eyes 

The flash of falling star. 

His smile is lavish as the June — 

An errant knight in courtesy. 
With him all nature is attune, 

And Fortune loves him, she ! 

Who would not smile on young and old, 
With youth and beauty for his own ; 

And maiden's smile, and hope and gold, 
And Pegasus a throne ! 

Well, well ! Go, Love, thy happy round 
And pluck the summers ere they die ; 

On fairy pinions without sound 
Flit, joy — a butterfly. 

Be wary ! Only this I say : 

I would not 'larm you, youth, and yet 
Dan Cupid hides beside the way 

With arrows and a net. 



80 LOVE ON WHEELS 

wSo, Love, farewell! with shining- team- 
As Fortune turn and bowl along* ; 

You lend the summer many a gleam — 
I lend to you my song. 



SONG 

Sing, sing, O bird, on my low roof -tree, 

Leave care for the coming- morrow ; 
The clover is sweet on the grassy lea, 
The .sky is bine as the rolling sea, 
There 's never a hint of sorrow ! 

Blow, blow, O wind, o'er my little home, 

Joy went with the glad sun's leaving; 
The rose's petals drop one by one, 
The rain is falling, the clouds are dun, 
My heart is lone and grieving ! 



"LET THIS CONSOLE THEE" 

Let this console thee, fainting- heart, 
No one but thee can do thy part 

In thy allotted tasks ; 
This is thy work which lieth near, 
Do thou thy best and do not fear, 

'Tis all God asks. 

And art thou weak, and mean, and small? 
God's creatures work His kingdom all, 

And none so poor but may ; 
Be not dismayed, thou canst not tell 
But of thy failures He counts well, — 

Who knows His way ? 

Nor canst thou judge if good or ill 
The place the Lord gives thee to fill, — 

Thy work if small or great ; 
Man's estimate is not God's own: 
He knows our efforts, He alone 

The soul's estate. 



"LET THIS CONSOLE THEE" 83 

Then be content, O fainting- heart, 
No one but thee shall do thy part 

In life's allotted tasks ; 
Here lies the work that 's meant for you : 
Bravely to strive thy best to do, 

Is what God asks. 



"WHEN JUNE HANGS ALL WITH 
COLUMBINES" 

When June hangs all with columbines 

Our mountain cliffs so bold, 
The prickly pear enfires the plains 

And lavishes her gold. 

On the arroyo's edges brown, 

With heart of gold silk clad, 
The vestal poppy looks her down 

And makes the mesa glad. 

All night the trailing snow-ball pours 

Her soul upon the air, 
Until the meadow lark betakes 

The sunrise to his care. 

Ah, then, the lupins mock the sky, 

Our sky of cloudless blue, 
And on the waking senses steals 

The air which Eden knew. 



WALT WHITMAN 
May 31, 1819 — March 26, 1892 

One master poet royally her own, 

Begot of Freedom, bore our Western World : 
A poet, native as the dew impearl'd 

Upon her grass ; a brother, thew and bone, 

To mountains wild, vast lakes and prairies 
lone; 
One, life and soul, akin to speech unfurl' d, 
And zeal of artisan, and song- not curl'd 

In fronded forms, or petrified in tone. 

High latitudes of thought gave breath to him ; 
The paps he suck'd ran not false shame for 
milk; 

No bastard he ! but virile truth in limb 
And soul. A Titan mocking- at the silk 

That bound the wing-s of song-. A tongue of 
flame, 

Whose ashes gender an immortal name. 



FLOWERS 

When into being- at our God's command 
Came sun and moon, came life, and sea and 

land, — 
Came all things good, they all of one accord 
Raised peans to their author and their Lord : 
But some, weak - winged, reached not the 

Heav'nly bowers ; 
They fell to earth, God smiled, and they were 

flowers. 



IN MEMORIAM 
L. R. P. 

Thou God doth know, thou God alone, — 

O author of joy and pain, — 
What conquests are ours we count as loss, 

What failures we reckon gain. 

And of this life whose sun is set 
Ere the half its race be run — 

Who dares to say it was incomplete, 
When the Lord has called it done? 

Ay, done the all these hands may do, 
And all that this kindly heart, 

And good or ill, they are one to-day, 
The poor with the better part. 

Rest gently on him what faults were his, - 

Cast ye a stone who may ! 
Oh ! kindly trace ye the human stain 

On this broken, lifeless clay. 



88 IN MEMORIAM 

For you who hated and you who care 

No jot that this life be spent, — 
There are who were better, when all is said, 

For this life that came and went. 

There are whose lives will ever miss 
This friend from their loving band ; 

The ready tongue, the kindly smile, 
That quick , impulsive hand ; 

The heart so eager to help the weak, 

So human in weakness, too ; 
That soul so strong to maintain the right, 

So valiant, so firm, so true ! 

And I lay this song on his bier to-day, 

This wild -weed flow'r of rhyme, 
To speak of the warmth of this cold, dead heart 

That kindled and glowed on mine. 

C) human heart, for thy faults more dear, 

Fear not in thy quiet grave, 
That He will keep in his loving care, 

Who was human, that he might save ! 

January 4, 1888 



"SO DEAR IS LIFE" 

So dear is Life 

To his twin brother, Death, 

That ever, far and wide, 

He seeks his love 

The world around. 

And thus he makes his dole, 
And thus says Death : 

He loves me not ! 
I am too sad of brow. 
And yet I will not tire ; 
My laughing; brother 
Must yield at last, 
As maid unto her lover ! 
Faint not, my heart, 
The Fates have promised thee 
Thy love shall not 
Be unrequited." 

And whether Life 

Keeps vigil all night long, 



90 "SO DEAR IS LIFE" 

Or sports with song- and dance 

In joy's embrace; 

What time he walks with lust 

And trails upon the dust 

His golden hair ; 

The while he plucks 

Fair youth and age 

Beside time's way — 

Where'er or how, 

Unloved, 

Pale Death is there, 

Faithful. 

Who has not heard 

The high gods say 

'Tis but a breath 

That lies between 

His kinsman, Life, and Death ? 

I, knowing well 

What mysteries 

Are wrought by love in time, 

Believe the prophecy 

To my heart uttered, 

That Life and Death, 

111 severed, 

Were one ; and at the last 

Shall both again be 

One high godhead. 



EVENING PRIMROSES 

{Oenothera Biennis) 

Primroses pale that light the way, 

Fair moons in skies of green, 
Tapers that burn on the bier of day 
With rays serene ! 

Thine is a maiden's timid grace ; 

Ye durst not rival the sun-lov'd flow'rs, 
But call thy court in the humblest place 
At twilight hours. 

In girdling meadows, with lighted lamp, 

The fire-fly gads on happy wings ; 
With his spear of grass he guards thy camp 
From noisome things. 

Ariel knows thy cellars, well, 

And sips at thy wine-cups half the night ; 
Prithee, primroses, his secrets tell, 
Half dark, half light. 



92 EVENING PRIMROSES 

Teach me to use the magic wile 

That hid him in the cloven pine, 
Or the songs he sang in Prospero's isle, 
Tender, sublime. 

Sometimes I fancy thee censers swung 

By the soft West wind at an unseen shrine, 
And list for the ev'ning anthems sung 
With beat and rhyme. 

Or perchance I think of the Holy Grail 

That Arthur's knights went forth to seek ; 
Or, of nails, and the Cross in thy petals pale, 
Of One, so meek ! 

At times the purblind bats do fly 

Against thy golden pillars, four ; 
And the drunken moths as they homeward hie 
Beat at thy door. 

No inns are ye for swag-gering bee ! 

Surely thy lovers in black and gold 

Are liveried varlets from over the sea, 

Of Puck's household. 

The whippoorwill knows thee and calls thy 
praise, 
The little brown worm looks up to thee ; 



EVENING PRIMROSES 93 

All things that love not the sun's bright rays 
In sooth love thee ! 

And I, primroses, I love thee so, 

To save thy beauty from ruth and wrong, 
I wrap thee far from sun and snow 
Within my song. 

There, orbs of peace, glow, glow, and shine ! 

And take this charge from me to keep, 
To light that narrow grave of mine, 
When I shall sleep. 



FOR OLD SAKE'S SAKE 

Perhaps we both were childish, 
The fault, perhaps, was mine ; 

But we parted, broken-hearted, 
And neither gave a sign. 

Adown the long walk turning, 
And out at the wicket gate, 

You trod, as a man in anger, 
As a man in love with hate. 

And I, too proud for a woman, 
As I saunter' d the portico, 

Twined in my hair the jasmine, 
That used to please you so. 

Yet, despite my pique and scorning, 

Before I slept that night, 
I kiss'd, with repentant kisses, 

That star-flow' r, sweet and white. 

Alas ! for the pride that starveth, 
You came not, could not care : 



FOR OLD SAKE'S SAKE 95 

And, like a woman, I spoke not 
Of my burden of despair. 

So ours was the bitter parting 

That pride and folly take ; 
Ah, me ! but the snow-white blossom 
I wear for old sake's sake. 

Now still when the August moonlight 
Fills the world with its wond'rous sheen, 

I live again our quarrel 

In a sort of waking dream. 

Again we are parted in ang-er, 

As you rise up at my feet ; 
Again I twine half scornful, 

The jasmine, white and sweet. 

But I smile at thought of the sorrow, 

That ever it cost me a care ; 
Yet, for old sake's sake, there are blossoms 

That I twine as of old in my hair. 

Marblehead, Mass., 
February 14, 1889 



FULFILLMENT 

As once of old beside the dusty way 

The beg-gar stood to whom the Christ gave 

sig-ht 
And saw his face, half fearful with delight, 
Dazed half at finding what until that day 
He only dream 'd ; so on thy face, I may, 
Belov'd, with eyes whereto thou gavest light 
In darkness, gaze and tremble at love's might, 
Whose fullness fills my days. 

O life, I say, 
How didst thou keep thy house — how joy, how 

fare, 
Before love came ? and thou f t) shore of time, 
How barren wert, ere yet her tide made rhyme 
And laughter round thy crags so lone and bare ! 
Ah, love, I cannot so persuade me now 
Thou wert not ever mine, I know not how ! 



SI FACIETUR 

What matters the day when my heart's desire 
Shall blossom a flow'r of snow and fire ? 
If it come early, or tarries late, — 
What care I, so it consummate ! 

Merry 's the getting ! so tarry long — 
Building birds have the blithest song : 
Here 's to my hope in Hate's despite — 
Gayest morn to the longest night ! 

What care I that the summer hours 
Star with beauty another's bowers? 
Fairest the fruits when summer 's done — 
Fortune 's her gift for every one. 

Yet, O dream of my heart's unrest, 
Come at last from the east or west ; 
Patience, I prithee, 't is never late — 
What care I, so it consummate ! 



THE DODDER 

( Cuscuta Avensis) 

Her spirit plead in passing", doomed by fate 
To lower lives, and the pitying gods gave ear. 
Mean am I, weak as any vine earth bears, 
And yet my soul knew only fire and air ; 
Tho' vilely set, I homaged all the g-ods ; 
Fides doth witness that my love was gold, 
And therefore do I beg- that I may be 
Tho' small, a thing- of gold, in that low life 
Mine now becomes ; a roadside weed, perchance 
As fits my servitude, yet living gold 
As fits too one beloved as I have been ; 
And for my bloom, ye gods, the rose I wore, 
The white, white rose of joy when first I knew 
The gold-voiced Caesar loved me, even me. 

So Nero's Acte passed, a vestal soul, 
In garb of harlotry, to robes of gold. 



WITHOUT THEE, LORD OF LIFE 

Without Thee, Lord of life, 
Without thy grace to me ; 
What may I hope to gain by strife ? — 
Eternity ? 

How shall I strive? Ah, be 
My heart still strong to dare, 
Yet day by day this only grace for me, 
Thy loving care ! 

How shall I pray ? How task, 
Dear Lord, thy patience meet? 
Still spare me what I foolish ask, 
O Jesus sweet. 

How shall I live? Alway 
So poor my best to know ! 
Yet keep thou me, by night, by day, 
Where'er I go. 



100 "WITHOUT THEE, LORD OF LIFE 

Where'er I go, or bide, 
Howe'er I fail, or be ; 
Bear with me, Lord, and hide 
Myself in Thee ! 



HIS GOODNESS 

O taste and see that the Lord is good. — Psalms. 

Ye souls an hungered, taste and see 
How good is the Lord, whoe'er ye be ; 
Taste ye and see, how all in all 
His comfort is to them who fall ; 
O taste and see who do not know, 
How good is the Lord where'er ye go. 
Wherever we go — in shadows drear? 
O'er hill-tops barren , thro' pastures searf 
Ay, He shepherds us all, He knoweth best 
Where we must journey to take our rest. 
Like foolish sheep we are prone to stray 
And lose ourselves in the trackless way ; 
But tho' we wander so far from Him 
Our feet are lost in tracks of sin, 
Yet from His love we cannot fall : 
He is Lord of Heaven and Lord of all ! 
And therefore I pray, that ye taste and see 
How good is the Lord who cares for Thee. 
Who cares for Thee ! what blessed grace : 



102 HIS GOODNESS 

O turn and seek Him, face to face ! 
Thy soul no more shall fearful be, 
When once ye know He feedeth thee. 

Taste ye and see, the sweet words plead, 

How good is the Lord in time of need ; 

How strong His arm when we weakly cry, 

And the whole world else has passed us by ; 

How gentle the hand that lifts us o'er 

The roughs of life when our feet are sore. 

He pillows the head on His gracious breast, 

And soothes the throbbing pulse to rest ; 

Oh, never mother with anxious care 

As keenly feels what her children bear ; 

No father pities his only son 

As the Lord in Heaven, us every one. 

He drieth the tears that need must flow, 

He ever is with us where we must go. 

No need is too small for His gracious care, 

His boundless love is everywhere : 

The ravens He feedeth, He clothes the grass 

And ye are His while the long days pass, 

And ye are His when night is near ; 

Who trust in the Lord shall know no fear ! 

Who trust in the Lord, despite of sin, 

Are kept by, and cared for, and fed by Him. 



THE CROSS-BEARER 

Singing God's praise in lifted voice, 

Adown the aisle they go — 
The sweet boy-choir in robes of white, 

With measured step and slow. 

And aye before them, as the Christ, 
Upbearing: his cross of gold, 

The youngest walks and leads the way 
To the gate of the one God's fold. 

Week after week 't is mine to hear, 
'Mid the pauses of writ and prayer, 

Their fresh young voices rise and fall 
On the incense-laden air. 

But most with me a vision stays 
Of the young boy's sinless face, 

As he bears the sacred symbol on 
To the altar of God's grace. 

And I think of Him, who, without spot, 
Bore the cross for even me ; 



104 THE CROSS-BEARER 

And the little cross -bearer's sweet white face 
For my tears I scarce can see. 

For the cruel years to my vision come 
With a cross enwreathed with care — 

The burden of others which love's self brings 
For those tiny hands to bear. 

Yet, little cross-bearer, the Christ of God, 

Whose type so young- ye be, 
From His Heaven will look Him down and 
know 

And bear Him thy cross with thee. 

So ever, as needs must be on earth, 
Bear the cross 'mid prayer and praise, 

To stand at last in the Heavenly courts 
Of the ancient God of days. 

Library, 

January 19, 1892 



SHUFFLE THE CARDS 

Patience, and shuffle the cards, my friend, 

And never luck dismay you ; 
For the spring- flow'rs bloom on the winter's 

snow, 
And the longest lane has a turn, you know, 

Take heart again, I pray you. 

Shuffle the cards and laugh, my friend, 

There 's no use at all in caring ; 
For pearls before swine we all have thrown, 
And bitterest days we too have known ; 
Then let 's have no despairing. 

Patience, my friend, and shuffle the cards, 

And keep up bone and sinew ; 
For the hare will start when you least expect, 
And God 's over us all, pray recollect; 

He calls for the best that 's in you. 

Shuffle the cards with a patient will ; 
Let no ill luck affright you ; 



106 SHUFFLE THE CARDS 

For the tide will surely turn at length, 
And the good Lord gives each day His 
strength ; 
Time's own strong arm shall right you. 

Nogales, 

October 3, 1890 



EDWIN BOOTH 

" The rest is silence ! " 

Oft in old days we knew thee in our tears : 
We crazed with Lear, ate with the Moor our 

heart, 
Or lived thro' thee his cursed ancient's part ; 
Again, saw Banquo's ghost and dwelt in fears ; 
And now again right royal the Dane appears, 
And Richelieu, poor Shylock on the mart; 
But ay, we laugh to tame proud Kate by art 
And noble grow once more as Brutus nears. 
While once Troy was : ah, me, what days were 
these, 
Thou Shakespeare's brother, Time's consum- 
mate guest ! 
The world's high plaudits thine to hold in 
fee, 
Who knew Life's every pulse, and drank to lees 
The Muse's loving-cup. But what is best 
Love at thy silent door makes dole for 
thee. 



SUSPENSE 

Upstairs in the hush'd and silent room, 

New come to earth she lies, 
A babe as sweet as the jasmine flow'r, 

And pure as her native skies. 

The house is still 'd with an awful hush 

As God himself were there ; 
For the angel of life and she of death 

Hold my loved one within their care. 

With bated breath I wait and wait ; 

I long, yet fear, to know, 
What the heralds of God have brought to me, 

Of joy to me, or woe. 

Morn comes to light these loveless plains ; 

I hear the finch hard by ; — 
Oh, God ! to live again with her, 

Or with her gladly die ! 

April 16, 1892 



MARBLEHEAD NECK IN SUMMER 

Far in the offing the sails go flitting- by ; 
Athwart the sky gleams like a silver speck 
The hoop-wing' d gull. There lies the wreck, 
Rock -wedged ; the billows leap anigh ; 
Wreathing the sunken ledge the foam flow'rs 

lie 
In moony whiteness ; seaweeds dark bedeck 
The rugged cliffs. The summer sunbeams 

fleck 
The opalescent sea. The bitter cry 
Of icy winds is still' d, and winter's dearth 
Is not. The cricket has not found her voice 
To brood, nor the wild rose her fruit. 
The peace of sky and sea and the glad earth 
Conspire to bid the soul of man rejoice, 
While neither bird, nor grass, nor stone is 

mute. 

Nogales, 
June 14, 1891 



"JOYS GO BY ME" 

Joys go by me, — what care I ? 
Youth shall cost me not a sigh ; 
So loves tarries when I 'm gray, 
Age itself may pass away. 

Hope hath spent herself and me : 
Gone, I care not though she be ! 
All my earth and heav'n lies 
In the dark of hazel eyes. 

Friends are leaving with the rest : 
Still I count myself but blest ; 
If I only keep one heart, 
Fortune too may well depart ! 

Farewell, follies ! never more, 
Need ye seek my open door ; 
So love lingers when I 'm old, 
I have youth, and friends, and gold. 



THE HOUSE 

The pillars were all of light and day, 
And joy the roof -tree overhead ; 

Here life and love should have dwelt alway, 
Till time were dead. 

But, oh, my dwelling- fair and fair! 

Grief entered in — life bides alone : 
'T is meet it perish, a thing so fair, 

I cry with moan. 

For what of the lintels, shining white, 
When darkness reigns, nor love is by-; 

Alas for life alone by night, 
With grief and cry ! 

June 28, 1896 



SERVICE 

Give me grace, O gracious Master, 

Some kind word to say- 
That shall make one heart the lighter 

On his bitter day. 

Make it mine, O gracious Master, 

Daily do I pray ; 
Just to do some act of kindness 

As I pass this way. 

Much I ask, O Lord, most gracious, 

Asking- this of Thee ; 
Yet, dear Lord, to me unworthy, 

Amen! let it be. 



AUF WIEDERSEHEN 
E. L. F. 

From thy dear hand I slip my lingering: clasp ; 

We go our ways o'er sea and mount and 
plain : 
Fate rules us all, but, Dear, I love you so 

I will but say, Auf wiedersehen ! 

Ah, other friends will cross our future ways ! 

Yet love comes ever to his own again 
By cunning laws we know not, to his own ; 

And so I say, Auf wiedersehen ! 

All dim the years that loom athwart our path : — 
Yet shine the stars tho' hid in murky rain ; 

Perhaps not here, then in some higher life, 
And so, Auf wiedersehen ! 

Albany, N. Y., 
June 9, 1902 



"OFTEN IN DREAMS" 

Often in dreams I see a town — 

Quaint, brown, its houses be ; 
And its ways, they zigzag up and down 

And lead to the mighty sea. 

Therein I walk in the dead of night, 

As once in a youth divine, 
And again I know, all clad in light, 

The old-time friends of mine. 

Naught is changed and I am a child : 

The long waves wash the shore, 
The buttercups blow, and the roses wild, 

As they did in the days of yore. 

The salt sea winds are akin to me, 

We know what the sea gulls say, 
And cozen his sweets from the thief of the lea 

When the pimpernels call to play. 



"CEASE NOT TO PRAY FOR ME" 

Cease not to pray for me, thou Heav'nly guest, 
For me, thy once fond care, still earthly 

bound. 
I know not of the mansion thou hast found, 
What life is thine, thine what in God's behest; 
But surely thou wert other changed than blest 
Me to forget, me unencircled round 
With wonted pray ' rs . Love ' s depth no plum - 
mets sound. 
God set no burning limit to her quest. 
Do I not love in that I may not see ? 
Can one forget his own who bides with 
God! — 
Bound in the flesh, but of the spirit free : 
The bow for heav'n, and for the worm the 
sod. — 
O my beloved, cease not ; pray for me ; 
What heights are thine, am I not still of thee ! 

April IS, 1905 



POEM 1 

Old Church that we love and honor to-day, 
All hail to thee, clad in thy festive array ! 
Hail to thee, Altar, long blessed of our God ; 
Thee, roof -tree, most honored; thee, transept, 

once trod 
By our loved ones in glory; hail parts, one and 

all, 
Grown to splendor like lilies and roses at call 
Of the Master ! whose word 
Charms the wind to a tempest ; who holds the 

wee bird 
In the palm of His care, when that tempest is 

stirred. 

The mountains are His and He made them, 
On their slope the lambkins play ; 

The seas are deep -fixed where he laid them, 
There saileth the nautilus gay. 

1 Read at the exercises commemorating the renova- 
tion of St. Michael's Church, Marblehead, Mass., April 
18, 1888. 



POEM 117 

The stars hang their lamps to His glory ; 

The moon, and the sun's round rim ; 
The little brown worm tells the story 

Of the infinite love unto Him. 
He giveth the snow in its season ; 

He painteth the meadows green ; 
He blesseth us all beyond reason ; 

And thou, that love hath seen, 
O Church of our fathers ! 

So meet is it, right, we should praise Him, the 
Sovereign Lord of might, 

The Maker of life, the Giver of breath, Jeho- 
vah, our light ! 

It is good we should lay at His feet our gifts 
and our love, 

The Eternal One, ever-abiding, alone change- 
less, the Godhead above ! 

And what shall we lay on His Altar? 

And what may we bring in our rhyme ? 
No bullock, as sung in the Psalter, 

No incense up -curling the shrine. 
What love on this day of devotion ? 

What tale do we offer of pelf ? 
Each brings of his little a portion, 

And nothing so much as himself. 



118 POEM 

All things are of Thee, O God ! 

We give of Thine own, we say ; 
All things are Thine own, O Christ ! 

Ourselves Thine own alway. 

And such to-day as we are, O Lord, we lay at 

Thy feet, 
Leaving Thy love to perfect what else were 

incomplete ; 
Trusting the made with the Maker, why should 

we doubt or fear ? 
Thou knowest the love we purpose, Thou, who 

art nearer than near. 

But wherefore this to-day of days ? 
Wherefore is this song of praise ? 
Wherefore is this address given 
To thy honor, Church of Heaven ? 
Tell once more, O song of mine, 
What we celebrate in ryhme, 
Why we joy with thee to-day. 

Ah ! St. Michael's, this the story 
Why we chant thy present glory, 

Hail thee in thy bright array : 
Many clouds, and dark above thee, 
Hung o'er thee and those that love thee, 

Now thy saints in endless light ; 
Long they hung, oft re-appearing ; 



POEM 119 

Brighter days, too, came endearing,— 

Stars of promise in thy night. 
More than once ye faltered, ailing ; 
More then once thy strength was failing ; 

Once indeed almost enslaved. 
Let us up and honor duly 
Names of Trevett and of Drury, 

Who thy fane, O Michael, saved. 
Other arms hath lent thee power ; 
Gorman kept thee in the hour 
Of thy purging as with fire ; 
Evans gave thee of his treasure ; 
Many gave, no one could measure, 

Secret alms of high desire. 
But before all names the rarer, 
Shines the Hooper name, and fairer 

Gleams that name that can be said, 
One thereof, with special honor ! 
Smile, old Michael's, smile upon her! 
Thanks and blessings on her head ! 
So 't was spite the night's misseeming, 
Stars like these are ever gleaming, 
From God's Heaven over thee ; 
Ever looked ye up with yearning, 
Larger strength by these discerning, 
And the dawn upon the sea. 
Now night is o'er, 
And full day comes : 



« 
120 POEM 

Lo, where across thy threshold- shine 

The promise-rays of happier suns 

With broader usefulness, and more 

Than e'er before, 

Thou old-time shrine ! 

So put aside sackcloth and ashes, at length ; 

Thy poverty 's gone, thy sorrow is past ; 

Thou renewest like the eagle thy youth and thy 

strength ; 
A Phoenix from ashes, thou riseth at last. 
The dust-soiled garments no longer are thine : 
Lent season is gone, — let thy lovers rejoice ; 
Deck thy Altar with lilies that fade not with 

time ; 
Soft raiment be thine, rich garments and 

choice. 

Then hail once again, O mother ours, 

Garlanded with garlands of praise and flowers ! 

Spouse of the Christ, as Mary pure, 

As Michael valiant to endure ! 

We, who sing thee hymns to-day, 

We, who kneel at thy feet to pray, 

Not alone give thee honor due, 

Thy dead rise and bless thee, O mother, too ! 

The dead in the Lord, they rest on thy bosom 
in peace ! 



POEM 121 

Shall they not know and rejoice with thee in 
thy mirth, 
Who gavest to them of the joys that never 
shall cease ? 
Not so dark, I ween, are those narrow beds 
in the earth, 
But thou, O lamp of the Lord, may be light to 
their feet ! 
Not wholly forgot are the loved of the earth 
by the dead : 
To joy in our joy, how else were Heaven 
complete ! 
Thro' the clouds that cluster, O mother, high 
over thy head, 
Gleam in halos of sunlight those faces of thine, 
As thro' the wash of the ceiling, like Abdiel's 
true, 
Peer the angels of Christ, over Sophia's sad 
shrine, 
Casting loveful eyes on the altars they knew ; 
And tho' unseen of our eyes, them the spirit 
discerns ; 
And tho' we hear not their voices, their song 
fills the sky ; 
Sure for the loved of the Lord, the light of the 
Altar burns ; 

Call them not dead, they live, they ever are 
nigh. 



122 POEM 

Hail, Michael's ! the quick and the dead offer 
praise, 
'T is the dawn of the promise of happier 

days; 
'T is the spring of the year, rejoice and be glad ; 
No note has the bluebird or sparrow that 's 
sad, 
And naught would we bid thee, but be of good 
cheer, 
O Church of our fathers, this jubilee year. 
We hail thee, and leave thee. God's blessing 
be thine ! 
Who hath heretofore led thee in shadow and 
shine ; 
Who hath heretofore staid thee in sorrow and 
loss, 
Himself been thy Simon in bearing thy 
Cross ; 
Who hath heretofore blessed thee, nor left thee 
alone, 
O Church of our fathers, St. Michael's, His 
own! 



DIVERGING 

Two nestlings fledg-ed within the nest ; 
Two children at one mother's knee ; 
Two seeds within a pod of green ; 
Two ships at meeting - on the sea. 

Some little practice of the wing ; 
A few more prayers yet the bed ; 
Some little warmth of summer's sun ; 
A rough, hale greeting to be said. 

A parting then to north and south ! 
A tearful hand-shake at the door ! 
A bursting of the ripened pod ! 
A sailing off to meet no more ! 

1876 



G. C. 

(His Epitaph) 

A merry heart here took to bed 

Whose only fault was always funning-. 

He 'd make you laugh if you were dead, 

And dead he 'd make you with his punning, 



HIC JACET W. A. 

They buried Agag in this grave — 
'T is sad enough to set one crying. 

No mass his soul will ever save, 
For still in death he goes on lying. 



WITHOUT HER 

Death frights me not, but, oh, the lonesome 
grave 
At whose still doors love weeps and goes his 
way ; 
And horrid hell could hold no torture, save 
To know thy feet in heav'n forever stray. 



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